


All This & Heaven Too

by fragiledrug



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, Future Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragiledrug/pseuds/fragiledrug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the moment of his death, future!Castiel is somehow transported back in time, to 2012, and instead of dealing with Croats and the apocalypse, he has to deal with Leviathans and the consequences of his counterpart's past decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Still Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this is going, beyond the fact that I had an idea and am ~~running with it~~ being dragged along for the ride. Title shamelessly stolen from Florence + The Machine.

Castiel hadn’t expected to open his eyes ever again, so when he does he experiences a moment of disbelief so sharp it all but eviscerates him. _It’s a trap. It has to be a trap. I’m dead. I’m in hell now. This is hell and I’m going to be tortured and I—_

“…Cas?”

His thoughts are cut short by the sound of his name and it’s not the name itself that punches all the air from his lungs but rather the _voice_ , that voice, a voice he would recognize anywhere, in any time, any place. He inhales, throat burning uncomfortably. _Dean_. He looks up, and there he is – _Dean_! – perfect and whole and so damn beautiful Cas could cry. He starts to stand from his defensive crouch against the wall only to hesitate. _It’s a trap. They’re using my memories. I’m dead._

“Cas, what—what the hell? You’re not—“

“Don’t,” he interrupts harshly. “I know this game. You’re not real. Just get it over with. Strip my skin from my muscles, burn my muscles from my bones, snap every bone. I’ll scream as much as you want, as loud as you want, just – don’t, please. Not him.” His voice breaks pathetically on the last words. Lifting his hands, he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, hard, until color explodes behind them and his head pounds. The pain grounds him, stills the fine tremors that were starting along his shoulders. Weight falls on one of his arms and his entire body reflexively kicks into fight mode. The demon wearing Dean’s face bites out a curse and struggles to wrestle him into submission. It’s not fair; they’ve even duplicated Dean’s scent, a heady mix of leather, rock salt, dirt and a hint of soft, spicy musk that’s uniquely him. Cas involuntarily takes in the familiar, alluring scent, letting it fill him, and that’s all it takes to sap the fight out of him. He wilts against the Dean imitation, fingers tightening in his shirt as if that will somehow make him real.

“Look at me.”

He shakes his head, trying not to cave to the desperation quickly blooming in his chest, constricting his airway and making his eyes burn with tears he hasn’t shed in years.

“Dammit, Cas, look at me!”

A hand comes under his chin, forces his head up, and he tries to close his eyes, to keep from looking, but there seems to be a disconnection between his brain and his eyes because he ends up staring right into hazel eyes that have distinct splinters of green and are far more striking than they have any right to be. The world tilts on its axis and he’s sobbing, breath coming in ragged pants as he buries his face against Dean’s neck, clutching at him, breathing him in. Dean just makes these quiet, soothing sounds, one hand rubbing aimless circles on his back, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers carding in and out of the short hair at his nape. It takes Castiel almost twenty minutes to calm down enough to pry himself off Dean, exhausted, his throat sore, head pounding. Dean doesn’t say anything as he turns to get a glass of water and Cas suddenly realizes he’s in a hotel room. There are two beds, one covered in guns and knives, the other rumpled, the sheets thrown down without care. The wallpaper is gaudy, brown and blue, and the singular painting on the wall is cracked. The floor is dirty, but he doesn’t really care. He’s been in worse places.

When Dean returns, holding out the glass, Cas gratefully accepts it and downs it in just a few gulps. It’s cold and it eases some of tenderness of his raw throat. Dean steps back, sitting on the occupied bed – although he’s not really sitting so much as perching, as if poised to jump up if Castiel so much as teeters wrong. Cas toys with the empty glass in his hands for several long, quiet moments. It’s probably only a minute or so but it feels like hours before Dean finally sighs.

“So what… I mean, what…” He can’t seem to get the words right.

“What am I doing here?” Dean nods. “I don’t know. I thought—I should be dead.”

“But you’re not.” He always had been good at stating the obvious. Castiel feels his mouth curve into a self-deprecating smile, the only kind he can remember how to make just then.

“No, apparently not.”

Dean is frowning. “What happened?”

It’s a loaded question if Cas ever heard one. He looks at Dean, really looks, taking in the dark circles under his eyes, the bit of stubble at his chin, the way his throat works when he swallows and his shoulders shift minutely under the unveiled scrutiny. This is a different Dean than the one he’d become so used to, the one who stopped caring so many years ago, who closed himself off from the rest of the world with such a completeness that not even he could break through. The one who sacrificed him. Castiel lowers his eyes to the dingy carpet that was probably white at some point but is now a questionable grayish brown. Sacrificed isn’t quite the right word. After all, he’d known exactly what was going on. He wasn’t oblivious. He’d gone willingly, eagerly even, and given the chance to do it again he knew he would. He would do it over and over and over again, unrepentantly.

“I’m tired.” He isn’t avoiding the question, or at least he tells himself he isn’t. Dean nods, tersely, and makes a gesture toward the disheveled bed.

“Get some sleep, then.”

Castiel hesitates as he finally gets up, hands clenching at his sides. “You’ll still… be here, when I wake up?” _And I won’t find out this is just some terrible, fucked up dream,_ he adds silently.

The look Dean gives him is nothing short of bewildered. “Yeah, of course.”

With a nod of his own, he moves to the bed and lies down, feeling Dean’s eyes on him the entire time.


	2. Keepsakes

He hadn’t actually intended to fall asleep but isn’t until hours later that he opens his eyes again to find the room dimmed, the sound of hushed voices filling the silence. At first he can’t recognize who the voices belong to, let alone what they’re saying, but the longer he lies there, listening, the more clear they become until he can pick out Dean’s low cadence – and then, with a bit of a start, Sam’s.

_Lucifer._

Castiel strains to hear what they’re talking about, barely breathing for fear of interrupting, of making himself known.

“Where’d he even come from?” Sam – Lucifer – asks.

“I’ve got no freakin’ clue,” Dean replies. “I was cleaning the guns and he just sort of… popped in, you know? Like his angel self, but this is… I think he’s from the future.”

“The future?”

“2014. All that crap with the Croatoan virus and the apocalypse.” He hears Dean sigh. “He said something about – acted like I was gonna – dammit.”

“So, he doesn’t know—“

“No, he doesn’t know anything.”

“And he’s human?”

“As far as I can tell.”

“What should we do?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Not Lucifer, then. Just Sam. Beautiful, messed up Sam.

Castiel sits up, twisting to look at the brothers where they sit at a rickety table against the wall. Dean notices him first and straightens abruptly. Ages ago, he might have been able to read the hunter’s body language, but now, it’s completely lost to him. Sam has to turn to look at him and even knowing it’s not Lucifer inhabiting his body his heart trips over itself and starts back up in double-time.

“Feeling better?” Dean asks, posture still ramrod stiff.

“Yeah.” Cas’ throat is raw again, but he’s not sure if it’s from disuse while he slept or something else. He clears his throat, attempting to get rid of the rough, gravel-embedded quality it’s taken. “I think I could eat a whole horse, though.”

Dean and Sam exchange a brief look before Sam chuckles. It’s a sound Castiel hasn’t heard in a long time. “There’s a diner down the street. I don’t think they have horse but they have pretty good hamburgers.”

That’s almost enough to make him smile. Getting up from the bed, he stretches, enjoying the pleasant ache of sleep-knotted muscles relaxing. When he looks back over, Sam is pulling on a jacket and Dean is watching him, his gaze strangely intense. The undisguised stare makes Cas freeze, suddenly hyperaware of his own pulse. Dean opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it and stands, moving to his bag. After a moment of rummaging he pulls out a tan overcoat. He trails his fingers over the beaten, worn fabric as he moves toward Castiel, stopping just within arm’s reach of him.

“I kept it, after—“ Dean cuts off, frowning. His fingers flex against the overcoat. “Figure it’s still yours, even if you’re… not you.”

Lifting a hand, Cas touches one of the straps of the overcoat. He remembers it, of course. How could he not? It was Jimmy’s. Jimmy’s been gone for a while, though, released to a more peaceful place, but even before that Castiel had somehow come to associate it as his. Apparently Dean had too. He hadn’t seen the battered piece of clothing since he’d first started to fall, and Dean – his Dean, the cold, irreparably broken Dean – insisted he start dressing more comfortably, more human.

“I mean, you’re you, obviously, but not the you who went and got all juiced up on souls and decided he was God.” Cas looks up abruptly at that, ignoring the way Dean isn’t making eye contact anymore.

“Wait. What?”

Dean practically shoves the overcoat at him and turns, leaving the room without so much as a backwards glance. Sam has to step out of his way, and then he’s sighing and running a hand through his too long hair. “Long story,” he says. “And not one of Dean’s favorites, either. I’ll fill you in while we eat.”


	3. Catching Up

The diner is quaint, decorated in traditional red and white checkers and pictures of even-slightly famous people who have been there all over the walls. Dean and Sam are on one side of the booth, leaving Cas on the other. Dean is sort of intentionally squished up against the window, looking out at the traffic. It’s a little after six in the evening, or at least that was what the diner clock said. Castiel’s sense of time is off, has been off since civilization crumbled and time became less important than places and people. Their waitress is a small blond scrap of a girl, barely even eighteen. She smiles as she approaches.

“What can I get you boys?”

“Coffee,” Cas says immediately. That earns him another bewildered look from Dean. Two in one day. He’s on some kind of roll.

“Didn’t think you were the coffee type.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” He turns his attention back to the waitress. “I’ll also have a bacon cheeseburger and fries.”

Sam clears his throat, more for the sake of dissolving the unusual tension that has blossomed than attempting to get attention. “I’ll have a turkey sandwich, a salad and Pepsi.”

“I’ll have the same thing he’s getting,” Dean tells her with a jerk of his head in Castiel’s direction. “Also, do you have any pie?”

As she scribbles their orders down, the waitress shifts her weight. “We sure do! You got a choice of apple, cherry and pumpkin.”

“Can I get a slice of apple and a slice of cherry?”

Sam practically snorts his dismay. “Seriously?”

“Shut up, Sam. I haven’t had any freakin’ pie for at least a month.”

The waitress is trying not to smile, but she’s failing. “Okay, I’ll be back with your drinks in a minute.”

With that, she turns and heads for the back of the diner. Cas watches her until she disappears. Being in the diner is a stark reminder of his situation. In 2014, this place probably would have been falling apart, long abandoned. Instead of neat, clean tile, there would have been blood, grime and graffiti.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by Sam’s voice.

“So, Cas, long story short is you – er, the other you – were secretly working with Crowley.” Dean makes a derisive noise, but Sam continues, ignoring the interruption. “You both wanted to open up purgatory to use the souls. Crowley was going to use them to get more power in hell and you were going to use them to help you defeat Rafael.”

“Rafael…” Castiel frowns. It’s been so long since he had contact with any of his siblings.

“Basically you and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel were fighting for top spot but Rafael was stronger than you and instead of asking for help you decided to do whatever the hell you wanted to.” Sam gives Dean a pointed look. It’s Dean’s turn to ignore his brother. “So you got the souls, proclaimed yourself the new God, ditched us and ran around smiting a bunch of sinners to prove your point.”

The waitress chooses then to return with their drinks and Cas is grateful to have something to occupy himself with while he listens. He grabs several sugar packets, tearing them open and pouring them into the coffee. He stirs the sugar in until it appears to be completely dissolved and takes a sip. It’s hot, but not hot enough to burn. He savors the sweet-bitter mix on his tongue.

Sam picks up the story. “When you finally came to us for help, we tried to put all the souls back but the Leviathan hung on and took over. They walked you into a reservoir.”

Castiel takes several long, pointedly slow breaths. “I assume I didn’t come back up?”

Sam shakes his head and Dean is looking back out the window. His gaze is distant, like he’s looking but not actually seeing anything. Cas takes another sip of his coffee and counts the seconds, minutes until the waitress returns a second time with their food. They eat in relative silence.


	4. Changes

By the time they return to the hotel it’s nearly eight PM. The sky has darkened and the air has become chilled. Castiel fights off a shiver as he walks in behind Dean, Sam behind him to close the door. He feels better now that he’s eaten, but his skin feels too tight, and he can only guess why though there are a number of potential reasons; the weight of knowledge, the first stirrings of addiction needing to be sated. Normally he would get a hit, let whatever it was settle in his bloodstream, then go see Dean if he wasn’t busy plotting out their next mission – and if he wasn’t he’d lean against his desk, hip jutting out just so, arms over his chest, a lazy, lascivious smile present. Eventually Dean would get sick of his hovering and tell him to get on his knees and do something useful. Cas always complied. The times he was busy, Dean would bark at him to get out without even looking at him. Later, after losing himself in someone else’s skin, he’d wonder if Dean would look at him, would touch him the next day.

Sometimes he went for weeks without Dean’s attention.

It didn’t used to be that way. There was a time they spent hours, days exploring each other, just the two of them, skin to skin, no boundaries. He can’t pin-point the exact moment it fell apart. He’s not sure there is an exact moment, but rather a measured, subtle corruption. Slow and gentle became fast and rough, pleasure became pain and Castiel embraced it all because it was Dean.

He turns to say something, only to come face to face with Dean. He doesn’t startle but his eyes do widen, and then he smiles, quickly covering his thoughts with a mask. “Do you mind if I shower?”

Dean shakes his head, the motion drawing Cas’ attention to his neck, where skin meets fabric, disappears under the plaid of his shirt. “Have at.”

“Wanna join me?” The question is out before Castiel can stop himself. To Dean’s credit, he manages to look only slightly dumbfounded and shocked before he sputters and stalks several feet away, like putting distance between them will make the question vanish.

“Just go take your damn shower, man.” A pause. “Don’t use up all the hot water.”

Hot water. The thought sends a thrill through him. Hot water was a rare commodity in the future. Deciding to give Dean a break, he gives him a final cheeky grin before heading for the bathroom. Once there, he quickly strips off his clothes and turns on the faucet. A sigh escapes him when he steps under the water, and for a while he just lets the spray hit him, pour down his body, soak into his skin. It sates some of the itch under his skin, calms him down. He knows it won’t last, it never does, but for the moment it’s good enough, and he moves to scrub himself, clean his hair with the generic shampoo one of the brothers left in there.

When he’s done, half an hour has passed. He shuts the water off, steps out – and abruptly realizes he doesn’t have a change of clothing. Cracking the door open, he calls out, “Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“I don’t have a change of clothing.”

He thinks he hears a sigh, then shuffling, and he waits patiently until Dean is pushing the door open enough to be able to hand him a small pile of clothes. Cas accepts them and the door closes. Shrugging to himself, he sets the pile on the sink counter. There’s a pair of gray sweatpants and what appears to be one of Dean’s older band shirts – Metallica, of course. After pulling the sweatpants on (and having to tighten the drawstring, though even with it pulled all the way they still managed to hang off his hips), he shakes out the shirt, slipping it on over his head. It smells like Dean, imbued with the distinct mix of leather, gun oil, blood, and his own natural musk. He grabs the collar and drags the shirt up to smell it, to inhale the familiar scent until it filled his chest and sent a jolt of pleasure down his spine.

Before Dean, his favorite scent had been pine. There was so much about him Dean had changed.

He lets the collar drop into place. The itch was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the super slow updates; I'm in the process of moving. Things won't be settled until after October, and then, with any luck, my muse will come back. Thanks to everyone for reading!


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